Passion
by FFcrazy15
Summary: A series of one-shots regarding Jesus' love for us. Note that these are strictly fiction and didn't necessarily happen this way. This is in honor of our Lord Jesus, who suffered torture and death so that whoever believes in him should have eternal life.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If this isn't already obvious, please understand that I do NOT own the Bible, I did NOT write it, and I do NOT make any money off of it. Also, what I'm writing here is purely fiction, and did not, I repeat DID NOT happen.

"Is it I, Lord?"

Jesus glanced up at the man in front of him. Two dark sets of eyes locked together, and something of a brief understanding passed between them.

"Judas, what you have to do, do it quickly," Jesus said softly.

Judas stared at him, as if he somehow could tell that this was the pivot point. And then, like the tearing of papyrus, the moment broke, and his disciple stood up and walked out of the room.

No one paid much mind; they assumed that Judas had some sort of business to attend to; maybe he was checking to make sure that the door had been painted with blood or that the servants hadn't forgotten the wine. It was Passover, after all; there was much to be done.

Jesus also stood, walking out to the low balcony. It was really just an extension of the roof: wooden beams covered by a mixture of died clay and straw. He watched his friend, whom he'd trusted so much go off to betray him.

He swallowed, his throat feeling dry, and he was afraid that he'd have a breakdown right then and there. But no; he had to wait until they were in the Garden of Gethsemane, where he could pray alone. He didn't want to upset his friends now, not during the holiday.

"Lord?"

He started slightly and turned. Peter was standing in the doorway, his body framed by the warm torchlight of the room behind him.

"Peter," Jesus said, relieved. He was so jumpy these days. Then again, knowing what was ahead of him, it wasn't much of a surprise.

His most trusted disciple walked up beside him and looked out over the empty streets. A minute of silence passed, before Peter said, "Where is Judas?"

"He had business to attend to."

"Where is he really?"

Jesus looked at Peter. "You know I never lie."

"No. But just because no one else noticed he left doesn't mean I didn't." Peter looked him dead in the eyes. "Lord, did he go to betray you?"

Jesus sighed. "Everything must come to pass in this order, Peter."

"Jesus, you can't let him get away with this-!"

"Peace, Peter. All is as it should be."

His best friend still looked doubtful. "So… you're going to be all right?"

Jesus swallowed and shook his head mutely. Peter was struck by how scared he looked.

"Lord- Jesus-" Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around his friend's torso and pulled him into a hug. "Please. Please, save yourself."

Jesus hugged him back. "Peter. You're a brother to me, you understand that?"

Peter nodded.

"Then you know why I have to do this. To save you. To save everyone."

"But-"

"I can't protect myself when others have more need. I couldn't bear to see you- any of you- burn in Hell… and I'll go through Hell to save you." He pulled away and held his 'brother' at arm's length. "And I will not be the only one to suffer for what must be."

"What do you-"

"I told you earlier, before the cock crows, you will deny me thrice. But you will also achieve great things. I know this because my Father has told me." He looked his best friend straight in the eyes. "Peter, are you prepared to follow me and my teachings, no matter where it may lead you? Even if it is into great suffering and even death?"

Peter nodded. "I am."

Jesus breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Good." He glanced at the door. "We should go back in, or the others will wonder where we went. Don't tell anyone else about this; I don't want to worry them during the celebrations."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

As they were about to go back in, Peter stopped Jesus once more. "Jesus, you're- you're not going to die, right?"

Jesus once again looked Peter in the eyes. "I promise you, Peter," he said softly, "That no matter what, I will always be with you." And without another word, he walked past him and back into the crowded room, leaving Peter to hope that he was wrong about what was to come.


	2. Chapter 2 Gethsemane

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bible or Jesus. He owns me. : )

"Lord- Father- please…"

Sweat rolled down his face onto the wet grass of the garden. Gethsemane was beautiful, but at that moment, he would have loved to have been anywhere else.

The beautiful starlight high above, the smell of the olive trees, the quietness… all of it seemed almost like a dream. But he knew it wasn't a dream. If anything, it was a nightmare.

"Father, I beg of you, don't let them kill me. If- if it is your will, please, stop them from crucifying me." He felt his stomach churn, nauseated, as images of screaming men with broken legs raced through his mind. He saw blood, _his_ blood spurt out as nails were forced through his wrists, and he understood with absolute clarity that this picture was no image from his own mind; this was a vision of the future.

"Oh Father Almighty, are they going to do that to me? Are they going to- to- nail me to the cross? Force thorns onto my head? Scourge me and pierce my side?" He felt bile rising in his throat. "I- I thought I was ready for this… Oh Father!" He fell forward, until he was not just on his knees, but now on all fours. Tears mixed with the sweat, and then tiny drops of blood as he bit his lip to stifle the sobs, not wanting to worry the others.

It did no good. The sobs came anyway, wracking his body and making him shake. He wanted to scream, to vomit at the images that plagued his mind. His body, looking more red blood than flesh as the skin was torn from the muscle. His agonized screams ringing through the air as nails were pounded into his wrists, staining the wood behind them scarlet. His vision growing dim and hazy; a ruby curtain of blood dripping down his hair and over his eyes as he moaned for something to drink.

"Lord- Father- If it is your will, take this cup from me!" he cried out. He was shaking horribly, terrified beyond all measure. While the divine part of him knew why he had to do this, the human part of him screamed at him to run, run as far and as fast as he could.

Suddenly, new images broke into his head: a little boy praying in front of a cross; a woman crying in a confessional; a teenage boy opening his bible to seek some words of comfort. More, and more, and more until the flood was like a soothing balm on his mind.

"But- But if it is your will… Then let your will be done, not mine." He was still shaking horribly, still crying and sweating, his hands aching from their tight clasp of prayer. "I- I'm scared… so scared… I'm terrified of the pain. I know it's going to hurt, hurt so much that my bones will feel like lead and my blood like the fires of Hell. But- but it's not about me. It's about them." He swallowed, his throat dry and tight, and barely- so barely- managed to get the words out: "Father, your will be done."


	3. Chapter 3 Trial

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bible, and I make no money off of this. It's completely FICTION people!

"Are you the King of the Jews?"

"You say that I am."

Pilate frowned, as if he was very close to losing his temper. This man would give him no straight answer! "_You_ question him!" he said quietly, to the rest of the council. "See if you can get him to deny it!"

"Deny it? Why would we want him to deny it?" one of the members asked.

"Because the man will be committing heresy if he doesn't!"

"Jesus of Nazareth!" one of the others boomed. "Are you or are you not the Messiah?"

"Yes, tell us the truth!"

"Who are you, pretty-boy?"

Jesus did not answer.

Pilate leaned forward in his seat. "Don't you hear their accusations? The testimony they are saying against you?"

Yet still, the Son of Man said not a word.

"I've had it," Pilate said. "Let's get on with the releasing of the prisoner."

"Sir?" one of the others, a newbie, asked.

"It's tradition for me to release one prisoner this time of year. Or didn't you know?" Pilate said, annoyed. The scolded council member ducked his head. "All of you, let's move! We've wasted too much time with this crap, anyway."

**A While Later**

Jesus rubbed his wrists around where the cuffs were, trying to relieve some of the pain in them. He was being held in a jail cell in the dungeons, waiting for Pilate to come get him. He pulled half-heartedly at the cuffs, and only succeeded in making his wrists ache that much more. He let out a sigh.

"Long night?" someone in the cell across from him asked.

He looked over. A man with scraggly black hair looked back at him. Jesus thought he recognized his face; it was a man he'd been confused with once or twice, because they had the same first name: Jesus. The other man, however, was Jesus Barabbas.

"You've got no idea."

"Hey, I know you. Aren't you Jesus of Nazareth?" Jesus Barabbas asked. The man with the same name nodded. "I feel for you, man; the crowds want your blood even more than they want mine."

"I know," he answered.

"He's going to release one of us," Barabbas said. "And with all due respect, Nazarene, I think it's gonna be me."

The other Jesus nodded, swallowed.

"Jesus," Barabbas said absent-mindedly. "It's a good name. 'God saves.'"

"Don't I know it."

The rebellion leader looked at him. "They say you're the Messiah. Is it true?"

"If I said yes, would you believe me?"

Barabbas thought about this for a moment. "Nope."

Jesus of Nazareth nodded. "There are too many who don't."

"Hey," Barabbas said. "I'm just kind of wondering… why are you doing this? I mean, you could get out of this real easy. Just deny everything."

Jesus looked at him, and in his eyes there was a great deal of sadness, yet also a great deal of kindness. "I do because everyone another chance at salvation."

Barabbas laughed. "Yeah, sure. Me, salvation?"

"Yes."

"You're insane, Nazarene."

"I promise you, I'm perfectly rational."

Jesus Barabbas snorted and turned away. "Yeah, okay, 'Messiah.' Whatever you say."

Suddenly, a cuffed hand settled on his shoulder. "But you want salvation, don't you?"

Barabbas didn't answer.

"Let me ask you something. If a thief steals an apple in the market, he's arrested, correct?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"But if another pays his fine, do the guards let him go?"

"I- I guess…"

"I'm paying your fine. Not just to be released, but to have a chance at eternal life. Barabbas, _this _is your second chance. Don't waste it."

The rebel was about to answer, before they heard footsteps. A few moments later, Pontius Pilate was standing outside Jesus of Nazareth's cell.

The politician unlocked the door and, Jesus stood up. One of the guards took him by the arm and dragged him out. He winced as the sore arm was touched.

He was led through a series of corridors and hallways, up stairs and around curves. He lost track of the count after a while, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all (not an easy task when you're God). He wanted to tell Pontius to give it up; he knew where this was going. The crowds wanted him dead, and he was going to end up dead. Why draw it out?

But he remained silent, silent as a- what was it? A lamb led to the shearers? His mind was quickly forgetting small facts like that, and as quickly filled up again with terror.

Eventually, they reached a curtain, and Pilate walked through it, leaving Jesus on the other side.

At that moment, the crowd outside began to roar. Tens, no, dozens, no, _hundreds_ of people were screaming about him, throwing insults and threats, shouting to Pilate that he _must _be executed. It made him feel nauseous and dizzy and afraid, all at once, to think that this many people wanted him dead.

Somehow, Pilate silenced them. Jesus heard him say, "You brought this man to me, accusing him of misleading the people."

The crowds all started to shout again, but again, something shut them all up. "I have examined him in your presence," Pilate continued, "And I've found nothing wrong with him- or at least, not concerning the crimes you told me he committed, nor did Herod, who I sent this Nazarene to, and neither of us found anything worth killing him over. I have decided to punish him, and then release him, as is customary to do on this day."

All at once, the crowd started to shout, "_Him?_ We don't want _him!_ Release Barabbas!"

"Listen to me!" he yelled back. "I have already decided-"

The roar of the crowds cut him off. Finally, Pilate said, "Judge him yourself!"

"We can't!" someone yelled back. "We're not allowed to put someone to death!"

There was aloud agreement from the crowd, and then Pilate said, "Give me a few minutes." He walked back inside.

Jesus looked back at him calmly, as if he was rather interested about how the weather was out there. Pilate scowled.

"Alright, Nazarene. I want a straight answer this time, and none of that high-and-mighty talk or riddles. I'm in charge here." He walked a few paces towards him. "Answer me and answer me now: _Are you the king of the Jews?_"

Jesus laughed at that. It was strange, really; here he was, with a crowd outside demanding his blood, and he was laughing. He wasn't really sure why, but Pilate's question just seemed funny. His nerves had to be getting to him.

He stifled the laughter and said, "Are you asking this for yourself, or did someone else tell you to ask this?"

The politician rolled his eyes. "Am I a Jew? Your own 'people' and the chief priests have given you to me. You had to have done _something _that you haven't told me. So: what did you do wrong?"

"You don't understand. My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom was of this world, my servants would fight, so that I would not be handed to my death, but my kingdom is not from here."

Pilate raised an eyebrow. "Oookay. So, you are a king then?"

"You say I'm a king. This is the reason I was born, the reason I came to this world: to give witness to the truth. Everyone who hears the truth hears my voice."

Pilate laughed and said mockingly, "Oh really? So what is the truth?" Without waiting for an answer, he went back out. Jesus heard him say, "He's done nothing wrong. You have a custom that I release a prisoner to you to you each Passover. Do you want me to release the 'King of the Jews?'" This last bit was said very sarcastically.

"No! We want Barabbas! We want Barabbas!" the crowds chanted.

Pilate agreed to give them Barabbas, and then said, "I will have this 'King' of yours punished, that is all." This was met with some disproval from the crowds, but the man ignored them and walked back inside.

He was confronted with two weary, sad brown eyes, as Jesus looked back at him. Pilate looked away. He knew that Jesus knew what the 'punishment' would be.

"Take him to be scourged," he said to the guards.

"But sir-"

"Do you question my orders?"

"No, sir!" the guard gasped. He immediately rushed forward and took the victim by the bicep. Jesus let out a sharp gasp of pain.

Pilate looked over at him against his better judgment, and saw that the man's skin was tender, bruised. Not only that, Jesus' sleeves and much of the rest of his garment were stained a pale red. Pontius had head of this happening: when a person was filled with so much fear, he sweated blood. It was said to be excruciatingly painful.

The prisoner met his eyes, and Pilate suddenly realized what he'd condemned the man to. Because of his condition, the whipping would be even more painful than normal.

Jesus looked back at him, and tried to say without any words, _It's alright. I can handle it. I forgive you._

Then, the guard yanked his arm, and led him away.


	4. Chapter 4 Scourging

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bible, and I'm certainly not the writer of it. I make no money off of this. I wrote this chapter with the help of the movie 'The Passion of the Christ,' directed by Mel Gibson.

He tried not to think. He forced himself to forget where he was, who he was, if only for a moment.

He pretended that he wasn't about to be scourged, that he hadn't sweat blood the night before, that his body didn't already ache with pain, that he didn't know that this whipping was only the pre-show to what would soon happen.

He didn't lie to himself, no; he only forced himself not to think about it, to concentrate on the stone pillar in front of him, to memorize every detail of the iron cuffs that bound him to it.

"One!"

He heard the whip before he felt it, a shrieking hiss that melted into the agony of the fire that burned his back.

He let out a muffled moan, but managed to keep from crying out.

"Two!" a voice shouted.

Again, the whip struck him.

"Three!"

Again and again and again, until the point where the cries finally tore from his mouth, ripped out by the pain that attacked him.

"Fifteen!"

"Twenty-two!"

"Thirty!"

It was here that the whip stopped, and Jesus let himself breath. His hands were shaking horribly, and his breath came in short gasps. _Abba- Abba-_ It was the only word he could remember through the haze of pain.

Upon realizing that they had still not continued beating him, he wondered if, perhaps, the scourging was over. Perhaps they had decided to let it be at thirty?

"Thirty-one!"

The fresh wave of pain struck him with the force of a load of bricks, as the spiked cat o' nine tails tore at his skin.

"Thirty-two!"

He distantly heard laughing behind him, as if from a long way off, and realized that it was his tormentors that were laughing at his pain.

"Thirty-three!"

The scream never escaped his mouth; it died in the torrent of pain.

"Thirty-four!"

Fire.

"Thirty-five!"

Agony.

"Thirty-six!"

Hell.

When the cry of "Forty-six!" was called out, and the final blow shredded his bloodied flesh, he heard another person shout, "Enough!"

He was trembling, the tremors electrifying his nerves and making his hands shake, rattling the cuffs that held him. He tasted salty, metallic blood, and dimly noticed that he'd nearly bitten through his tongue.

He heard talking, shouting, but paid it no attention. It was the most he could do to stay conscious. Every part of him ached and burned from the flogging, and he wanted nothing more than to pass out, but he knew he had to stay awake. If he passed out now, he'd never wake up again.

Someone unlocked his chains, and he was hauled to his feet. His foot slipped as he tried to stand, because the ground was wet.

_Funny,_ he thought dimly. _Why'd the ground wet? I don't remember it raining today…_

He looked down and saw that the liquid was red, red as wine, and realized it was blood. His blood.

Well. He was wide awake now. His stomach convulsed at the sight, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to throw up right then and there.

The soldiers dragged him through some open-air hallways, and then back inside, where it was cool and dark.

They led him back to the Praetorium, where, he noticed, dozens of soldiers were waiting. He barely had time to realize what this meant, before he was thrown roughly to the ground.

He let out a sharp cry as he struck the stone, and seriously considered just staying there. Still, he managed to force himself to a knee-

WHAM! A well-aimed kick knocked him over again.

"King of the Jews!" someone shouted mockingly at him.

"You stupid sonofabitch, who do you think you are?"

"Haha, you thought you were a king, pretty-boy! Some king!"

He felt something prickly be forced onto his head, and it punctured his skin. He let out a sharp hiss of pain that was cut short as one of the guards tied something around his neck, nearly choking him.

He felt up with one shaking hand and realized it was a circlet made of- of some sort of thorn, he didn't know what. Through his hazy vision, he saw that the 'cape' around his neck was purple, the color of royalty.

"Oh, why hello, your highness!" one of the bigger men jeered in a high, fake falsetto. "Should I curtsy?"

"Oh no, oh no, me first, sire!" another squealed. They both pretended to curtsy as a third guard kicked Jesus again.

"Hail, King of the Jews!" he said, laughing mockingly, punching him right in the jaw as Jesus tried to get up again, knocking him down.

It was like he was eight all over again, some of the meaner twelve-year-olds picking on him and yelling that his mother was a whore.

Another punch, this time to the eye, sent him reeling to the ground. He tried to get onto all-fours, but as soon as he did, another kicked him in the stomach, _hard._

The bread he'd eaten during the Passover meal- how long ago was it? A few hours? It felt like eternities- was suddenly vomited onto the floor, as Jesus retched from the pain in his abdomen.

They were all laughing so hard now, tears were coming out of their eyes. "Some king!"

"Yeah, let's worship him!" One of the soldiers got down on his knees and did a fake bow of praise. "Hail, oh King of the Jews! Hail! Hail!"

Quickly, many of the others followed this, jeering. He realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that this was their entertainment for the day. This was all a little show for them.

Someone brought out a cane or a reed or something, and soon, that was added to the weapons used against him. He tried again and again to stand, to defend himself, but to no avail.

One last kick to the side toppled him over, and he curled into a ball as the punched and kicked him, trying not to cry out as their blows rained down.


	5. Chapter 5 Condemned

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bible (duh), and last I checked, I belong to JESUS, not the other way around. : P

He didn't know how long it was before they stopped beating him. He also didn't really remember Pilate walking into the room, or going out on the balcony to address the crowds. The first thing he could coherently realize was him being yanked out onto the balcony after Pilate had said something- something about finding nothing wrong with him-, his head throbbing from the thorns and the blood from his aching back drenching his clothes, which the soldiers had hastily put back on him after Pilate had walked in.

He blinked in the bright sunlight, his eyes not yet adjusted to the harsh light. It was because of this that he heard the crowd before he saw it:

What sounded like a thousand voices were roaring at him, cursing him, screaming to Pilate to have him crucified, to not wait another moment!

As they came into focus, he saw the faces of the people demanding his execution: hundreds of them, nearly every one demanding his death. He could not tell who screamed which insult; they were like a single entity, radiating absolute hatred.

He'd only ever felt that hatred once before, when he'd had a 'visitor' during his forty-day fast in the desert, and he knew, he _knew_ that Satan was here, in these people.

But that had been one being, in the desert. One person, if you could even call him that, that loathed him. Now, there were _hundreds_. The crowds seemed to have grown since the last trial, by the sound of them- maybe even doubled. It made him feel dizzy all over again, to hear so many people screaming for him to die, die, die-

Pilate held up a hand, and suddenly, the shouting stopped. "Look, this is the man!" he shouted.

The crowds surged again, screaming as if one: "CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!"

"_You_ crucify him!" he yelled back, silencing the crowds.

"We have a law!" one of the braver men yelled. "We have a law, and according to that law, he should die, because that bastard pretended to be the Son of God!"

Jesus saw the expression on Pilate's face change as he realized exactly what a tricky situation he was in here. He couldn't refuse the people, or they would riot in defense of their faith. He couldn't just sentence Jesus to death for no good reason, either. Without wasting another second, he grabbed Jesus forcefully by the arm.

The Jew let out a sharp, unintentional cry of pain. Pilate looked at him, startled, and then lessened his grip. He pulled Jesus more gently into the Praetorium.

"Where are you from?" he demanded, once they were inside.

Jesus blinked, unsure how to answer this and still dazed from the beating.

"Are you seriously refusing to talk to me?" Pilate demanded, angry and indignant that this _commoner _was refusing to speak to _him, _the man who held his very life in his hands. "You idiot, don't you realize that I have the power to either have you killed or to release you?"

"You wouldn't have any power over me at all, if you hadn't been given it from above," Jesus answered. "Because of this, the one who betrayed me has a greater sin than you." He winced, thinking of Judas. His friend, who had turned on him for _money._

Pilate's eyes turned guilty, and without taking Jesus, he went back out to the crowds. Jesus heard him try to convince them that he should be released, but it was no good. The crowds screamed at him that if he let Jesus go, he would be an enemy of Caesar, because he was supporting the man who made himself a king over the emperor.

Pilate stepped back inside for a moment, and Jesus could tell by the man's face that Pilate knew where this was going. He brought Jesus back out and sat down in his judgment chair. He shouted to the Jews, "Behold your king!"

"Away with him! Away with him! CRUCIFY HIM!"

"You want me to crucify your king?" he demanded.

"We have no king but Caesar!" someone shouted, and the crowd roared their approval.

Pilate hesitated for a moment, and then said to the servant beside him, "Bring me some water."

Jesus felt his blood run cold.

The servant returned a few minutes later with the bowl, and Pilate dipped his hands into it.

The crowds cheered.

Pilate stood and walked past Jesus, giving some orders to the guards. Jesus watched him go, stunned even though he'd known this was coming.

Pilate said nothing to him, and it was obvious that he hated having to sentence an innocent to death. He felt Jesus' eyes on him, but did not look at the man he'd condemned. He couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

**A/N: Okay, so I think that hand-washing thing might've come earlier, but I'm not sure… forgive me if I'm wrong!**


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